Selected Poems (40 page)

Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:

Though better to have died with those

Than bear a life of lingering woes.

My spirit shrunk not to sustain

1005

The searching throes of ceaseless pain;

Nor sought the self-accorded grave

Of ancient fool and modern knave:

Yet death I have not fear’d to meet;

And in the field it had been sweet,

1010

Had danger woo’d me on to move

The slave of glory, not of love.

I’ve braved it – not for honour’s boast;

I smile at laurels won or lost;

To such let others carve their way,

1015

For high renown, or hireling pay:

But place again before my eyes

Aught that I deem a worthy prize,

The maid I love, the man I hate;

And I will hunt the steps of fate,

1020

To save or slay, as these require,

Through rending steel, and rolling fire:

Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one

Who would but do – what he
hath
done.

Death is but what the haughty brave,

1025

The weak must bear, the wretch must crave;

Then let Life go to him who gave:

I have not quail’d to danger’s brow

When high and happy – need I
now
?

* * * * *

‘I loved her, Friar! nay, adored –

1030

But these are words that all can use –

I proved it more in deed than word;

There’s blood upon that dinted sword,

A stain its steel can never lose:

‘Twas shed for her, who died for me,

1035

It warm’d the heart of one abhorr’d:

Nay, start not – no – nor bend thy knee,

Nor midst my sins such act record;

Thou wilt absolve me from the deed,

For he was hostile to thy creed!

1040

The very name of Nazarene

Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen.

Ungrateful fool! since but for brands

Well wielded in some hardy hands,

And wounds by Galileans given,

1045

The surest pass to Turkish heaven,

For him his Houris still might wait

Impatient at the Prophet’s gate.

I loved her – love will find its way

Through paths where wolves would fear to prey;

1050

And if it dares enough, ’t were hard

If passion met not some reward –

No matter how, or where, or why,

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh:

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain

1055

I wish she had not loved again.

She died – I dare not tell thee how;

But look – ’t is written on my brow!

There read of Cain the curse and crime,

In characters unworn by time:

1060

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause;

Not mine the act, though I the cause.

Yet did he but what I had done

Had she been false to more than one.

Faithless to him, he gave the blow;

1065

But true to me, I laid him low:

Howe’er deserved her doom might be,

Her treachery was truth to me;

To me she gave her heart, that all

Which tyranny can ne’er enthrall;

1070

And I, alas! too late to save!

Yet all I then could give, I gave,

‘Twas some relief, our foe a grave.

His death sits lightly; but her fate

Has made me – what thou well may’st hate.

1075

His doom was seal’d – he knew it well

Warn’d by the voice of stern Taheer,

Deep in whose darkly boding ear
¹

The deathshot peal’d of murder near,

As filed the troop to where they fell!

1080

He died too in the battle broil,

A time that heeds nor pain nor toil;

One cry to Mahomet for aid,

One prayer to Alla all he made:

He knew and cross’d me in the fray –

1085

I gazed upon him where he lay,

And watch’d his spirit ebb away:

Though pierced like pard by hunters’ steel,

He felt not half that now I feel.

I search’d, but vainly search’d, to find

1090

The workings of a wounded mind;

Each feature of that sullen corse

Betray’d his rage, but no remorse.

Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace

Despair upon his dying face!

1095

The late repentance of that hour,

When Penitence hath lost her power

To tear one terror from the grave,

And will not soothe, and cannot save.

* * * * *

‘The cold in clime are cold in blood,

1100

Their love can scarce deserve the name;

But mine was like the lava flood

That boils in Ætna’s breast of flame.

I cannot prate in puling strain

Of ladye-love, and beauty’s chain:

1105

If changing cheek, and scorching vein,

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain,

If bursting heart, and madd’ning brain,

And daring deed, and vengeful steel,

And all that I have felt, and feel,

1110

Betoken love – that love was mine,

And shown by many a bitter sign.

‘Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh,

I knew but to obtain or die.

I die – but first I have possess’d,

1115

And come what may, I
have been
blest.

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid?

No – reft of all, yet undismay’d

But for the thought of Leila slain,

Give me the pleasure with the pain,

1120

So would I live and love again.

I grieve, but not, my holy guide!

For him who dies, but her who died:

She sleeps beneath the wandering wave –

Ah! had she but an earthly grave,

1125

This breaking heart and throbbing head

Should seek and share her narrow bed.

She was a form of life and light,

That, seen, became a part of sight;

And rose, where’er I turn’d mine eye,

1130

The Morning-star of Memory!

‘Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven;

A spark of that immortal fire

With angels shared, by Alla given,

To lift from earth our low desire.

1135

Devotion wafts the mind above,

But Heaven itself descends in love;

A feeling from the Godhead caught,

To wean from self each sordid thought;

A Ray of him who form’d the whole;

1140

A Glory circling round the soul!

I grant
my
love imperfect, all

That mortals by the name miscall;

Then deem it evil, what thou wilt;

But say, oh say,
hers
was not guilt!

1145

She was my life’s unerring light:

That quench’d, what beam shall break my night?

Oh! would it shone to lead me still,

Although to death or deadliest ill!

Why marvel ye, if they who lose

1150

This present joy, this future hope,

No more with sorrow meekly cope;

In phrensy then their fate accuse:

In madness do those fearful deeds

That seem to add but guilt to woe?

1155

Alas! the breast that inly bleeds

Hath nought to dread from outward blow:

Who falls from all he knows of bliss,

Cares little into what abyss.

Fierce as the gloomy vulture’s now

1160

To thee, old man, my deeds appear:

I read abhorrence on thy brow,

And this too was I born to bear!

‘Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,

With havock have I mark’d my way:

1165

But this was taught me by the dove,

To die – and know no second love.

This lesson yet hath man to learn,

Taught by the thing he dares to spurn:

The bird that sings within the brake,